


Insigne

by SemperDraca



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, alternate title is A Series Of Misunderstandings, mostly background vette/jaesa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:27:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29771340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SemperDraca/pseuds/SemperDraca
Summary: Your soulmate's name is written on your skin. Malavai has known he's supposed to end up with Gimrizh Korribanil since he was fifteen. Gimrizh, on the other hand, has never seen her mark.
Relationships: Malavai Quinn/Female Sith Warrior, Vette/Jaesa Willsaam
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Insigne

**Author's Note:**

> This is vaguely Iustitia-concurrent. If you've not read that (because it's stupid long and why tf would you) all you need to know here is that Gimrizh's childhood was BadTM
> 
> anyway, have some garbage that i thought of at like 2am

~*~

Shortly after Malavai’s fifteenth birthday, on his third day of summer classes at cram school, his right wrist begins to itch. Specifically the inside of his wrist, about two thirds of a centimeter below where the mess of carpal bones in his hand ends, and spreading about three centimeters across. Hidden just barely by his long sleeves, but unlike a mark on, say, his leg, so tantalizingly easy to sneak a glance of.

He’s tempted to tug his sleeve back and look right away. He’s still in the middle of school, however, and if any of his classmates sees, or force forbid the teacher, it’d be an embarrassing mess that he has no desire to deal with. Returning to his notes, he picks up his lightpen once more and leaves the mark alone. 

The moment he gets home that night, he gives in and checks. 

He shuts the front door behind him, places his bag down on the table, and then makes tea. It’s not as though he’s putting it off. Hesitation is natural, so he’s been told. His father mentioned that he didn’t look at his for a week after getting it due to nerves. When Malavai is nervous or stressed or, well, anything really, he makes tea. That’s something he got from his mother. If she says ‘Want tea?’ that means she wants tea and is being polite by offering. If she says ‘I’ll go make tea’ that means great emotional turmoil is afoot. 

Currently Malavai is feeling closer to the latter. 

Tea at the ready, he pulls his sleeve back and looks. 

Oh. Hm. That’s not… Well, he doesn’t really know what he was expecting, really. Not this, however. Not that it’s bad, really. But still. Unexpected. 

Footsteps shuffle into the kitchen. “Hey, Mal. Are you going to - Holy shit move the fuck aside and show me.”

“Language,” Malavai has to protest. 

His younger brother, Lucian, is lovely, when the mood strikes him to be. Not so much at the present moment. Lucian all but grabs his wrist and yanks his sleeve down to his elbow in a way that hopefully won’t pull the fabric. 

“Huh,” Lucian says once he reads the name. “I mean. I’m not… you know. Against that sort of thing,” he tentatively offers. 

“The word I believe you’re looking for is ‘prejudiced’ and I’m well aware you’re not.”

“Right. Well. I mean Korribanil or not - they’re Sith? That’s cool.”

“That is extremely complicated and twice as dangerous. I suppose I’d always imagined someone a bit more…” He can’t quite find an accurate way to describe it, and has to flounder for a moment as he runs through his vocabulary. “A bit more conventional. A fellow officer, maybe, or someone in a medical program.”

Lucian huffs in amusement. “You mean boring?”

“I most certainly do _not_.”

“Uh yeah you do. You meant you were thinking that you’d find someone uncomplicated and live an uncomplicated life and just do your duty to the Empire and all that?” Another laugh. “Yeah fucking _right_. I bet you _ten credits_ that you end up doing some crazy shit and have a whirlwind romance with this Sith and go on to do even more crazy shit like - “ he visibly casts his mind around for something ludicrous. “Like become Grand Moff or commit an assassination or - or do some crazy Dark Council shit with your Sith soulmate!"

Malavai blinks. “Firstly, how are those three things anything alike? And secondly, you don’t know that it’d be romantic. Some soulmates _are_ platonic.”

“Doubt yours is. You’re a romantic at heart,” he teases. 

“I most certainly am _not_.”

Lucian laughs and plops down in a chair to steal some of Malavai’s tea. “Psh. Ditch cram school tomorrow and come shopping with me. We gotta get you a bracelet or something.”

Hiding soulmarks is both conventional and considered polite. “I was just going to use medical tape.”

“Ugh. Refer to my earlier point about _boring_.”

~*~

When Gimrizh is thirteen years old, the back of her neck starts to itch. Not the sort of itch she gets if she accidentally falls asleep on the scratchy side of her pillow or the sort of itch she gets if she forgets to completely wash sand out of her hair. It’s a different itch. A bone deep itch. 

Her mistake is stopping in the middle of training to poke at it in wonder. She gets smacked in the face with a practice sword and even when she goes down, her hands are at the back of her neck, fingers rubbing over the skin as though she can feel the words there. She can’t of course. Soulmarks don’t typically cause any kind of raised indentations on the skin, or so she’s been told. But it still feels like there’s something there. Something warm and special and utterly her own. 

The Overseer watching that afternoon’s training notices. Had she done a better job of hiding her reaction, she might have been able to finish practice, sneak off to the fresher, and check in the mirror before having to report it. 

As it is, she’s grabbed by the arm and taken to the Supervisor’s office. 

The Supervisor, an old and heavily mustached man, doesn’t even have to direct the Overseer who brought her in. This is procedure for any and all Institute children and they must have done it a thousand times before her and will do it again a thousand times after her. 

The Overseer makes her sit in a chair. She helpfully points to the back of her neck. If they have to search her, she knows intrinsically that it will be worse. 

Her long hair - she really should cut it one of these days - is lifted up so that the two can see her mark. She tries to crane her neck around, but there’s no way of subtly doing so, so she gives up about half a second into the endeavour. Unfortunately there are no mirror in the Supervisor’s office. She knows how this works, she knows how these things go, and she’s never assumed that things would be any different for her once she got her soulmark. Over the years she’s watched the older students go through the process. Some of them walk out of the Supervisor’s office with a faint look of wonder on their face and a sparkle of a promised future in their eyes. Most simply walk out and never mention it again. 

“Hm,” the Overseer says. “Well at least we don’t need a translator.”

That means her soulmate writes their name in basic. Most people do, of course. Not all. She’s sure there are plenty of less civilized species - like her own - out there that refuse to use the easier forms of communication. If her soulmate is a Zabrak like she is, then at least they’re one who speaks the same language. 

The Supervisor goes back to his desk and pulls up a holographic screen and an input field. Although she can’t see what he’s typing, she knows what he’s doing. He’s looking up her soulmate. If they’re alive and in the Imperial database, then they’ll find them. 

Presumably a corresponding file pops up because the Supervisor stares at it for a moment, reading through the information. 

He nods at the Overseer. “Unsuited. Take her to the clinic for removal.”

~*~

Ten years, two months, and seven days into Malavai’s unpleasant stay on Balmorra, he gets a message from Darth Baras. Unlike many similar messages in the past, this isn’t a request for him to pass on information or do a bit of investigative work. This is a message stating that the newest apprentice of Darth Baras will be arriving on Balmorra in short order, and that Malavai is to assist her in her mission without asking too many questions, and while keeping an eye on her and reporting on her activities. 

The message arrives early in the morning, and so when he first reads the small dossier on said apprentice, he’s partially convinced he imagined it. He makes a mug of bitter, instant caf, and reads it again. 

_Gimrizh Korribanil_. 

He does a quick series of calculations to determine how likely it is that there’s more than one Gimrizh Korribanil out there. Apparently Zabraks aren’t particularly common in the Korriban Institutes, and while Gimrizh only tends to appear in records as a Zabrak-exclusive name, it’s a remarkably uncommon one. The odds that there’s at least one other person with that name isn’t zero, but it’s extremely unlikely. 

No, there can be little doubt about it. This… is his soulmate. This Zabrak apprentice that he knows both almost nothing and everything about is his soulmate. He reads her dossier twice more after that, but there’s little information on her and it’s all technical anyways. Age, birthday, height, weight. Very limited academic history other than her date of graduation from Institute Five - two years early - and her entrance and summary exit from the main Sith Academy on Korriban. 

Does she know _his_ name yet? Has Baras told her merely that she’ll have a contact on Balmorra or does she know, specifically, that it’s him? Is she as curious to meet him as he’s now curious to meet her? Obviously this can’t get in the way of their duties, and he’ll remain professional of course, but the idea of finally meeting her is admittedly appealing. 

He fails to get any sleep that night. 

~*~

Gimrizh’s first impression of Balmorra is ‘at least it’s not Korriban’.

Her first impression of Lieutenant Malavai Quinn, however, is ‘he’s much nicer to me than most people’.

While he doesn’t seem particularly fond of Vette - in his slight defense, she did insult him about two minutes after meeting him - he’s quite polite to Gimrizh. He listens to her opinions as she gives them, helps explain concepts that she’s confused on without even a single snide remark, and despite being extremely good at hiding his emotions and appearing professional at all times, there’s simply something about his body language that suggests curiosity towards her - and to her surprise, it doesn’t seem to be rude. 

Most people are rude to her. That sounds depressing when she thinks it, but it’s just how it is. A subspecies on Korriban is never treated well and she was always a bit of a loner. Tremel, when he took an interest in her training, had a tough love approach that was all tough and no love. At the Academy she’d been sneered at for her youth and species. Then Baras. Self explanatory. One of the reasons she’s so fond of Vette is that Vette doesn’t treat her like she’s any different from anyone else. 

Quinn is… different. Confusingly so. In a way that makes her extremely curious.

After all is said and done on Balmorra, and Vette is passed out getting blissful sleep onboard _Horizon_ , Quinn asks if she’d like a cup of caf. 

The kitchen in his building is tiny, cramped, and altogether rather depressing. Even the galley on her ship is more comfy, albeit not that much bigger. Everything on Balmorra seems to bring with it a veneer of hostility. A constant reminder that this is not a nice place to be and that everyone who can leave should do so at the first available opportunity. How Quinn has managed to stay here for ten years is half miracle and half mystery. 

“Here you are, my lord,” Quinn says, placing a cup of steaming hot caf in front of her. “It’s only instant caf, I’m afraid, but it’s caffeinated.”

She wraps her hands around the warm cup appreciatively. “I’d settle for a caffeine injection at this point.”

“As a medic, I’m obligated to inform you that such a thing would be ill-advised.”

That makes her laugh. “I suppose you’re right. You’re a medic then?”

For a moment he seems flustered, either because of her laugh or her question. “Yes,” he informs her. “I trained as a field surgeon but I have a background in most medical fields. For example, I could be placed on a triage team and perform decently well, but if you need a neurologist I’d be woefully unprepared.”

“So you’re a medic, a data analyst, and skilled at command?” That’s a much more impressive resume than she’d initially thought. Although she supposes she shouldn’t be surprised, as Baras seems to have little leniency for failure or even mediocrity. “Please don’t take offense, I really don’t mean to be rude but - why the _hell_ are you still on Balmorra? And furthermore, how the hell are you still a _lieutenant_?”

Something in his face closes off. “That is classified.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologize, my lord. If I could tell you, I likely would. However the matter isn’t up to me at this current time.”

 _If I could tell you_. Emphasis on the ‘you’. That’s odd. As though she’s some sort of exception to the rule. Perhaps it’s simply because she’s a Sith, and from Quinn’s general demeanor, he seems to be the sort of person who holds a great deal of respect for Sith in general. Yes, that’s likely what he was referring to. It’s not as though they know each other particularly well, so it can’t be that.

She waves the matter off and disguises her thoughts by taking a large gulp of caf. “Honestly, it’s quite alright. I’m hardly an exception to those rules.”

It’s very difficult to tell what he’s thinking, but his expression certainly shifts, albeit in a way she can’t decipher. “No,” he eventually says, his hands tightening minutely around his mug. “You are not. I apologize if this is… offensive, in some way but, may I say that I have a great deal of respect for your professionalism. And I further apologize if I haven’t reciprocated that professionalism in kind.”

Okay now she’s completely not sure what’s going on in his head, but she’s pretty sure he’s complimenting her. Her cheeks flush. “No, no it’s fine. You’ve been nothing but professional and it’s not as though I’d be offended even if you weren’t.”

“Oh. Well.” He clears his throat. “That’s good to hear.”

She’s still not quite sure what he’s talking about, but she’s happy to go back to her cup of caf and his pleasant company. 

~*~

Malavai paces back and forth in front of _Horizon_ ’s gangplank, waiting for Gimrizh to arrive. He’s been allowed to leave Balmorra, at long last, and even if Baras hadn’t ordered him to join Gimrizh’s crew, he imagines it’s where he’d have chosen to be posted regardless. That had also been interesting. Baras doesn’t know that Gimrizh is his soulmate. It makes sense, of course. There isn’t a policy forcing people to register their soulmates - unless the partner in question happens to be a member of the Republic. So the only people that know about Malavai’s is Lucian. His parents had known, but they’re dead now. 

Baras doesn’t know. That’s a surprising relief. 

“Sssssssssh!” he hears someone say. 

He looks to see Vette and Gimrizh staggering into the hangar bay, the both of them hanging off each others shoulders and a bottle of alcohol in Vette’s hand. They are obviously, _fantastically_ drunk.

Vette tugs herself off of Gimrizh and looks sober enough to cross her arms sternly and glare at him. "So it's the stuffy racist officer, back again."

What.

"I am so sorry for Vette’s… everything,” Gimrizh apologizes immediately. “What can I do for you, lieutenant - I mean, captain? I mean - oh stars, I’m so sorry. I can usually sober up with the force but er - it’s not working at the moment. I forgot how to do it. Oh dear, I’m rambling, I’m so sorry.”

“I was…” He clears his throat. “I was wondering if I might beg an audience, my lord.”

“You never need to beg, please, that’s just - erm - ” she stumbles multiple times before quickly asking, “What is it?”

“I’ve been granted leave to serve wherever I choose. If you’re amenable, I would like nothing more than to serve on your crew. You’re a dedicated and powerful Sith, and it would be an honor. You already know most of my skills, but I’m also a pilot, a marksman, and strategist. Although,” he adds carefully, intent on giving her a way out if she so chooses regardless of what Baras has ordered, “if you feel that would be uncomfortable for you or otherwise unprofessional, I completely understand and will not press the issue.”

She tilts her head to the side and it occurs to him that, even drunk, her eyes are beautiful shards of amber. “I would love for you to join my crew. Why would I be uncomfortable?”

Given how professional she’d been earlier, and how she’d never once broached the topic of their unusual relationship, he’d guess that there was a possibility she simply had stringent rules about keeping business and personal matters separate. Which is perfectly acceptable, and he wouldn’t hold it against her. Although he would have to admit to some slight disappointment. He wouldn’t admit it _out loud_ , of course. Like just about everyone in the galaxy, he’s wanted to meet his soulmate for years now, and while he would never complain to have the one single meeting with her, he can’t help desiring more. 

He’s about to say something probably foolish and undoubtedly embarrass himself, when for once, he’s saved by Vette. 

"You know - I don’t like him.” She shoots him another glare and then mopes at Gimrizh. “Getting you drunk took so much work, you have no idea, and he just _ruined_ it. Fucking buzzkill. But we do need a pilot. I can’t fly this ship alone.”

Gimrizh flushes with embarrassment and explains to him, “I’m not a very good pilot.” She holds out her hand and smiles. “Welcome to the crew, Captain Quinn.”

Warmth runs through him as he takes her hand. “Thank you, my lord. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be here.”

~*~

One day Gimrizh is going around like normal, and the next day everything goes wrong. Fast, isn’t it? Just like that. 

They’ve docked at the Tatooine Mos Ila spaceport. A few hours of leisure are afforded to them before they have to meet Baras’s contact here, and honestly, the definition of leisure on Tatooine primarily includes staying in the shade. Quinn in particular seems to dislike the weather, the heat and the dry air the polar opposite of Dromund Kaas. Vette dislikes the planet for entirely different, Hutt related reasons. Gimrizh thinks of Tatooine as she thought of Balmorra. It’s not Korriban. 

Vette saunters into _Horizon_ , saunters into Gimrizh’s quarters without asking, and then drops a giant bag on Gimrizh’s bed. 

“Surprise!” she says cheerfully, gesturing to the unknown bounty. 

Gimrizh, who’s been wiling away the hours tinkering with a lightsaber and was rather enjoying the process, is indeed surprised. “What is this?” she asks, poking a corner of the bag with trepidation. “Vette, have you been shopping?”

“I was being _nice_ ,” Vette declares. “This place is hot as hell and all you wear is black and brown and grey. And synthleather. So I got you some clothes better suited for the desert.” She grabs something out of the bag at random and thrusts it towards her. “Here! Try this one on. I think it’ll go great with your skin tone!”

The thing appears to be a soft white fabric, which wouldn’t be bad, exactly, against Gimrizh’s tan skin. She examines it further and determines that it’s a shirt, of some kind.

“Here, let me help.”

And then Vette’s hands are tugging off the tunic Gimrizh’s wearing and trying to put the shirt over her and it’s all so sudden and she doesn’t know what to _do_ so she freezes up like a statue and - 

“What…” Vette’s voice sounds confused. She’s staring at the back of Gimrizh’s neck. “What the hell is that? Is that a scar?”

Gimrizh steps away and adjusts the shirt so that it covers her neck. “It’s not your business.”

“How’d you get it? That looks… surgical. And I’d know. Former slave, remember? I’ve seen plenty of surgical scars from skin grafts, slave collars, discrete alterations some asshole wanted made. If someone’s - Well - Who do you need me to shoot?”

She presses her hand against the scar and remembers the sterile walls of the Institute medcenter and the feel of a surgical tool on her skin. “It was a long time ago. They were merely getting rid of a distraction.”

“You - “ Vette chokes. “They - They removed your _mark_?”

She nods, stiff and uncomfortable and can they _please_ stop having this conversation right now because it was years ago and it doesn’t matter.

Institute acolytes have rules that the rest of the Sith don’t. Humans and Red Sith are usually allowed to keep theirs. Not so for the other subspecies. If Gimrizh’s soulmate were a Zabrak, then perhaps she’d have been allowed to keep her mark. If there was the theoretical possibility of her having force-sensitive Zabrak children to add to the Sith Order, she might have been allowed. But they presumably were not. Any possibility, no matter how slight, of having half-breed children is not allowed. 

“Did you - did you see their name? Who was it?”

“My soulmate, you mean?” She shakes her head. “I never saw their name. They probably have a different soulmate, regardless. However it works - the force, or whatever - probably gave them a new, different soulmate after I was cut off from them.”

Vette hugs her and it’s _so_ awkward. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. No one deserves that.”

“Like I said. It was a long time ago.”

“Are they still around? Can I still shoot them?”

“Yes and no.”

“Damn it.”

~*~

Malavai is busy inventorying the medbay when Vette wanders in. She hovers around the entrance and then, when he shoots her a look, sits down on the medical bed. 

“Is there something I can do for you?” he asks. 

Vette shifts nervously. This is unusual. “I was um. You know numbers, right?”

Eloquent as always. He sighs and puts down the box he’d been double checking, resigning himself to the interruption that is Vette. “I am aware of the concept of mathematics, yes. If you have a more specific question, I’m going to require further details.”

“What are um - What are the chances that there’s more than one Jaesa Willsaam in the galaxy?”

That’s not the question he’d been expecting. He thinks on it. “I’d need access to all of Alderaan’s databanks to properly answer, but it’s not impossible. If your search parameters are wide enough to include now-deceased Jaesa Willsaams, then I’d say definitely. If you’re looking only for Jaesa Willsaams that are currently alive, it’s likely that there’s more than just the one. It is a large galaxy after all, and while I believe Willsaam is a specifically Alderaanian surname, Jaesa isn’t uncommon in Republic space.”

She nods, slowly, and for once she seems to actually be using her head for thinking instead of making silly expressions. “Right…”

“Why do you ask?” 

After another slow, surprisingly contemplative moment, she starts undoing the laces of her left shoe. 

“Oh for - do _not_ take your shoes off in the _medbay_ , what are you, six years old?”

He ducks as she throws the shoe at his head. 

“Yeesh, I’m answering your fucking question.” She points to her heel. “See?”

On her foot is a name. Black mark contrasting starkly with the blue of her skin, the letters appearing like a brand in his eyes. He reads the name. And he thought _he_ would have difficulty with a Korribanil soulmate. It’s possible that there _are_ two Jaesa Willsaam’s in the galaxy, and Vette’s soulmate is the other one, but given that Vette is about to meet the Jedi Jaesa Willsaam, it’s unlikely. For the first time, he pities Vette. Having to hunt down and eventually harm your soulmate is cruel to the extreme.

“Ah.” He picks her shoe up and hands it back to her. “I do believe I see the problem.”

Vette starts tugging her shoe back on. And - stars, she doesn’t even wear socks, why was he pitying her again? “Yeah. It’s a problem, that’s for sure.”

“You do understand that I am obliged to report this, yes? Not to Darth Baras,” he quickly assures her, “but Lord Gimrizh needs to know.”

“Yeah, makes sense. I just thought - hey, ask the numbers guy what the stats are before causing a fuss!” She sighs. “Fuss caused, I guess.”

“There’s no need for that. This is hardly the most disastrous occurrence in the history of soulmarks.”

“True.” She shrugs and casts a sad glance out the door. “Gimrizh has it worse.”

“Ex _cuse_ me? Was that _really_ called for?”

“You know about...?” 

“Her mark?” He stares down at his hands. “Yes, I know.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re really okay with it? You’re seriously telling me things are all fine and dandy for her?"

"Is it _truly_ that _terrible_?" he snaps, sarcasm dripping from his words.

"I’d rather have my soulmate be a serial killer than be in her position!”

If Malavai still had her shoe in hand, he might very well hit her on the head with it. “If that’s what you think, then get the _hell_ out of my medbay!”

She spits on the ground and stalks out, snarling, “You’re a fucking bastard, you know that?” 

His hands are shaking as he slams the door shut. 

Good krething riddance. He knew Vette could be callous and take a joke too far, but that was downright _cruel_ in a way he hadn’t expected from her. Well now he knows better. He knew she disliked him, but to _hate_ him like that? It doesn’t bother him if Gimrizh remains staunchly professional - that’s her prerogative. If Vette is _that_ opposed to him being her soulmate, then surely she’d be content knowing that Gimrizh isn’t acting on it. There was no need whatsoever for her to make it personal. 

Next time she gets stabbed in a cantina fight, she’s going to have to patch _herself_ up.

~*~

Gimrizh sits on a stool in the corner of _Horizon_ ’s tiny galley, watching as her crew celebrates a successful mission. Taris, like the rest of planets in the galaxy, is still better than Korriban. Not as spectacular as Dromund Kaas and not as miserable as Balmorra or Tatooine. Somewhere in the middle. An acceptable warzone, if there is such a thing. She’ll be glad to leave, and she’s even more pleased to have acquired a new crewmember along the way. 

Drinks are being passed around by Pierce, who seems to have brought a stash of personal liquor aboard. He, Vette, and Jaesa all partake heavily. Gimrizh only has a little of it, as it goes to her head extraordinary quickly. Quinn had taken one sip and gagged. She honestly can’t blame him - the stuff is fantastic for getting wasted but has very little in the way of flavor. It’s like drinking rubbing alcohol. 

“So,” Pierce asks after three drinks. He gestures at Vette and Jaesa. “You two. Are you…?”

After it became clear that Jaesa wasn’t going to be harmed, that her family would be alright under the Empire, and that she’d accepted joining the Sith Order, any tension between her and Vette had vanished overnight. Within a month the two were, as they say, ‘a thing’. Currently they’re leaning against one another, Jaesa with an arm wrapped around Vette. 

“Yep!” Vette raises her glass. “I’d show you my mark but it’s on my foot and apparently that is a rude thing to do.”

Jaesa tugs down her shirt to reveal the name scrawled on her collarbone. “Took me awhile to realize, actually, because the name originally showed up as Ce’na and then changed to Vette later on. I wasn’t sure who I was looking for and I didn’t actually know they were the same person until I met Vette. I was afraid of getting it wrong, you know.”

Pierce laughs. “Marks don’t change _that_ often. Not common.”

“Come on, show us yours,” Vette insists, finishing her drink and pouring herself another. “I can’t get Captain Stuffy here to reveal his, but I’m super curious about yours.”

He shrugs. “Sure, why not.” 

Covering soulmarks is common. Gimrizh is aware that Quinn has a strip of medical tape wrapped around his wrist and until Jaesa met Vette, she’d been wearing a bandage across her collarbone almost permanently. Gimrizh hides her own underneath high collars. She’d tried medical tape or a bandage, but it’d just irritated the scarring and, on one memorable occasion, caused a painful rash. Pierce, it would seem, doesn’t really care about that convention, and is one of those people who has no issue with keeping his easily on display. 

His mark is on his forearm and reads, in sharp letters - _Janise Lorant_.

“Ooooh.” Vette leans in closer. “Who’s she?”

“Old teammate of mine,” he replies. “My best friend. Romance doesn’t do it for me, so mine’s platonic. She’s got two marks - mine and someone else’s. Probably gonna have that whole romance thing someday, but not me.”

“That good or bad? For you, I mean.”

“Don’t matter much to me. She’s a good friend and it’s not like I’m losing nothing without a romantic soulmate.”

Vette nods along. “I knew a guy who had a platonic mark. He was pretty chill about the whole thing too. Guess I’m a romantic at heart.” She plants a kiss on Jaesa’s cheek. 

“What about you two?” Pierce plops his feet up on the table and gestures at Quinn and Gimrizh, spilling some of his drink as he does so. “You’re all Imperial regulation so I guess you probably don’t show anyone yours, and you’re Sith. Got no clue what Sith do. Flaunt it?”

Quinn stiffens and that air of insult wrinkles his nose. “I have the decency to keep mine hidden, yes.”

“Mine doesn’t matter,” Gimrizh says quietly, before Pierce can ask her again. Vette gives her a pitying look and for some reason Quinn’s shoulder slump ever so slightly. “It’s not as important as doing my job.”

“Exactly.” 

Quinn’s response is a bit too quick, a bit too clipped. Most people probably wouldn’t notice. Hells, a few months ago _she_ wouldn’t have noticed. With Quinn it’s all microexpressions and slight voice inflections. If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’s disappointed by her response. But why would he be? Maybe it’s simply that he’s her friend, and wants her to find some kind of happiness. Which she can do perfectly well without a mark, thank you very much. She has a crew and she has her position as a Sith, and she doesn’t need to mope about what she’ll never be able to have. 

She’s about to ask, only then Quinn stands up, dropping his barely touched glass into the sink and leaving. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do that doesn’t involve sitting around and getting inebriated.”

“Spoilsport!” Vette jeers, a bit too angry.

Whatever bad blood lies between the two of them is incomprehensible to Gimrizh. At first it had been merely snide comments and a general lack of amicability, but somewhere along the hunt for Jaesa, it had shifted into outright antagonism. Neither one has ever spoken about it. Vette, because she doesn’t want to worry Gimrizh, and Quinn, because he’s stated that it would be impolite to bring Gimrizh into a personal disagreement. She also got the distinct impression that he had no desire to recount the events to her, although she has no idea why. 

Gimrizh sticks out her empty glass. “Pour me another.”

~*~

Gimrizh only ever acknowledges their marks once. Or at least, Malavai _thinks_ she acknowledges it. 

It’s during their second mission to Alderaan, just after a particularly dull diplomatic function. This entire mission has been a diplomatic nightmare, filled with irritating conspiracies and unpleasant surprises, and Malavai is extremely grateful that the entire event is over and they’ll be able to leave in the morning. But right now, he’s grateful to be _here_. Because _here_ is the balcony outside Gimrizh’s quarters, with a bottle of wine split between the two of them and the night stars hanging overhead. 

“Force,” Gimrizh says with a giggle, “I can’t believe how _long_ Joran Organa’s speech was. Twenty minutes in and he was still going on about how nice it was that everyone was there and oh isn’t it _lovely_ that Alderaan is coming together like this. If we hadn’t left partway through I might have fallen asleep right then and there.”

Malavai can’t help a small, solitary laugh. Hers is infectious. “Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s still giving his speech down there.”

She snorts and then slaps a hand over her mouth to muffle the noise. Her cheeks turn a lovely pink underneath her dark tattoos. “At least he wasn’t as bad as Gisselle Organa.”

“What was wrong with the general? She was nowhere near as loquacious.”

“No, but she knew us from before. I don’t really like having repeated meetings with those that I’ve been forced to attack in the past. It’s not a pleasant reminder. Not to mention the paranoia of it. I was half convinced that she’d shoot me the moment my back was turned.”

“Even if she’d wanted to, there were no weapons allowed at the event. She didn’t have a blaster on her.”

“No weapons just means no _visible_ weapons.” Gimrizh smiles at him, all sharp wit and soft lips and he’s well aware that he’s a disaster. “You’re telling me you seriously went into a room full of pubs and Alderaanian militia and third party diplomants and Kiliks and you didn’t smuggle in a single weapon?”

He flushes and then sighs, admitting, “There’s a knife concealed in my boot. And you?”

She grabs a handful of her skirt and _stars_ , he _can’t_ look away even though he absolutely should look away right now - She pulls her dress up to reveal far more leg than he’d been expecting and a lightsaber strapped to her thigh. One of these days, she really will kill him. Even if she weren’t his soulmate, he doesn’t think he’d be able to look away from her. She’s too radiant, too elegant, and right now, far too attractive. 

“I was well prepared,” Gimrizh says slyly.

She does not let her skirt drop. 

“My lord…” He swallows and, in a burst of confidence that’s entirely the wine and will likely never be repeated, says, “Gimrizh. I know that you want to be professional and I’ve done as best as I can to respect that. However, I find myself frequently confused by your actions and I would appreciate it greatly if you could clarify your intentions. I won’t press the matter, I assure you, I simply want to know how best to maintain our working relationship.”

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and he wants to kiss her. He refrains. “I - “ She stops and then starts again, “I suppose, well - I want…”

She does not drop her skirt. She leans in. She kisses him. 

This is not what he expected, not at all, and as such he has no idea what to do or how to react and thus does _not_ react. He hesitates for too long, fails to reciprocate despite the fact that his heart is screaming at him to do so, his mind too caught up in the tangled mess of details. All he can think of is that her kiss is light and sweet and he can taste wine on her lips and feel the warmth of her body and that it lasts for barely a moment. 

After a second, Gimrizh suddenly pulls back. She drops her skirt, her mouth parting in aghast shock. 

“I’m sorry - I’m so sorry - “ 

“My lord, it’s - “ he tries. 

She stumbles away from him and he has no idea what to do. “Forget this ever happened,” she says, desperately. Her eyes are watering up. “I’m drunk, this means nothing, just - It never happened.”

She runs off, leaving him to wonder what the hell even _did_ just happen.

~*~

Gimrizh means to address the kiss on Alderaan, she really does. Only then she’s at the Maelstrom Prison and getting stabbed and being held in Republic prison, and in her defense there’s only so much one person can do at times like those. By the time she’s back in Imperial custody, months have passed, and it seems both silly and odd to bring it up when both she and Quinn are pretending as though it never happened.

This arrangement of silence lasts until after they have to rescue Lucian and she gets shot a few times. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Nothing’s _that_ bad after being stabbed in the heart. 

She’s on the bridge, reading through a dull report and watching as they orbit an Imperial docking station. The rhythm of ships passing by, circling the station, and sliding into hangar bays is soothing. Repetitive. The perfect thing for letting her mind wander. 

There are footsteps and then she’s looking up to see Quinn enter the bridge. 

“My lord,” he says, formal and awkward, and she knows instantly where this conversation is going to go. “I wish to speak with you. Informally, if that’s permitted.”

“Of course it is. It always is.”

“Thank you.” He hesitates. Perhaps he is as ill prepared for this conversation as she is, despite having initiated it. “I’m sure you’ll be unsurprised to hear that this is concerning Alderaan. I know you wish to leave the matter undiscussed, and under most circumstances I would respect that. However, it’s beginning to negatively impact our work. I’m certain both of us can agree that aspect shouldn’t continue.”

She chews on her lower lip. “No. I suppose not.”

“I also understand that any sort of relationship between us would potentially compromise our jobs in a different way. That is a risk I am personally willing to take.” No. No, no, he’s not supposed to say _that_ , he’s supposed to be reasonable about this. “I know you’ve never given much indication in that direction yourself, and if you wish to let the matter die permanently, I would not protest. I simply wish to make my feelings on the matter clear.”

A stone sinks in her stomach. It’s fine if she ruins her life by falling for her captain, but she won’t let him throw his happiness away. One day his soulmate will come along and he’ll be able to have an _actual_ relationship, with someone who’s perfectly suited for him, and it’s not fair to tie him down to her before he gets that chance. And letting him go would hurt her too much. She’d do it, oh she’d do it in a heartsbeat if he asked because she’d never deny him that, but it would be a poison in her chest that she’d never be able to get rid of. 

“I can’t start anything with you,” she whispers, forcing the words out. “I just can’t. And I’m truly sorry.”

“Because of our jobs,” he asks stiffly, “or because of the matter regarding soulmates - “

“No!” She hadn’t meant to snap, but it had stung unexpectedly. “I’m not like Vette or Jaesa or even Pierce. My soulmark doesn’t matter. It never mattered, it never had a chance to matter, alright? This isn’t about me, this is about _you_.”

Quinn goes quiet. Extremely, worryingly quiet. 

Explaining things to Vette had been bad enough, and that had been a barebones version of the truth. She’d feel the need to explain things to Malavai with greater depth, and that’s not something she knows will hurt. She’s come to terms with not having a soulmate, she really has. That doesn’t make the matter feel less secretive. As though it’s something to hide. Which is it, really. It’s another thing that marks her as different from the rest of the galaxy, an unwanted outsider. 

“I see,” Quinn finally says. His voice is cold and utterly devoid of any emotion. “In that case, I formally request a transfer off your crew.”

How the hell did he get from here to here? Her jaw falls open. “What? Why would you - I’m sorry if I snapped, I really am, but I don’t see why you’d want to leave. I won’t stop you, of course, I wouldn’t do _that_. But why? If there’s nothing between us then there’s no reason for you to leave because it won’t interfere with your work.”

“If you dislike me so greatly, then there won’t be any salvaging our work relationship,” he says, and _that’s_ snapping, not her previous mild retort. “I won’t force you to be in my presence anymore than I clearly already have.”

“I don’t dislike you at all! When in the galaxy did I give that impression?”

“Just now, when you said the issue was not with yourself, but with _me_. You’ve made your stance on the matter quite clear.” Knives are duller than his voice. “Thank you for clarifying your position. It’s _most_ appreciated. I’ll stop wasting both our time because while I can stand a professional relationship, I cannot continue that relationship with the knowledge that I mean so little in your eyes.”

“I never said that!”

“You _just_ did.”

“You still have a chance,” she insists, trying to figure out what she’s said wrong, where communication broke down between them. And trying to force some damn sense into him while she’s at it. “You can still find your soulmate and live your life. You can have that happiness, you can have what Vette and Jaesa have. But you’re loyal, Quinn, you’re heartsbreakingly loyal, and you’d stay with me if you pledged to and deny yourself that chance of happiness, and I refuse to do that to either of us. Just because I no longer have a soulmate doesn’t mean you need to settle for me out of some misguided attempt at pity.”

He stares at her in utter confusion. “I - I’m not sure I understood. Are you under the impression that you… _don’t_ have a soulmate?”

Fine, she guesses she’s doing this. 

She turns around and pulls her tunic down to bare the back of her neck. “See?” She tugs her shirt back up and faces him again, albeit reluctantly. “It was removed years ago and whoever had the misfortune to be initially paired with me probably had someone else chosen for them once I became _unsuited_.”

Quinn sits down in the chair across from her. No, sit isn’t the right word. _Collapses_ is more accurate. He blinks, slowly, and then lets out a deep breath that almost breaks into a shocked laugh at the end. 

“I see,” he says. “I am so sorry - I had no idea. All this time I thought you knew, that you were simply being… It would seem as though I have made a grave assumption.”

“That I also had a soulmate? It’s not exactly that silly an assumption. Most people have one.”

“No, not - This would be simpler if I showed you.”

Slowly, carefully, he tugs off his right glove. Then he rolls up his sleeve. There’s a strip of medical tape wrapped around his wrist where she knows his soulmark is. She’s never asked him to uncover it, of course not, and she doesn’t understand why he’s doing so. Because he is, he’s unwrapping the tape, and there’s dark letters under his skin, against the pale skin and blue veins of his wrist, and - 

_Gimrizh Korribanil_. 

That’s. That’s not. That can’t be right. Surely not. 

She stares at the writing for a good long while, trying to reconcile years of believing that when she’d lost her mark she’d lost her soulmate, with this new knowledge that while she lost her mark she never lost her soulmate. If she weren’t so stunned, she might laugh. Of _course_ the person that she’s been falling for would turn out to be her soulmate. If the force is behind all this, it certainly has a sense of humor. 

“So you knew,” she says quietly. “From the moment you met me, you knew that I was meant to be yours.”

He shrugs, purposefully making the movement as slight as possible. “I knew that you were supposed to be my soulmate, yes. I don’t think I’d go so far as to say that you’re _mine._ It’s merely a sign that if we wanted to try and make something work, we’d have good odds of success. Or at least that’s always how I’ve tried to think of it.”

“And you thought _I_ knew.”

“I did. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have been so insistent.”

That does make her laugh. “Insistent? Quinn, I _never_ suspected this for even a moment. Only you could be so subtle and call it obvious. Trust me, if you thought you were being pushy, I assure you that you weren’t at all.”

“Oh. Well. That’s… relieving to hear.”

“You thought I didn’t want you,” she realizes. “You thought that I was turning you down _despite_ the fact that I’m your… Stars, this is certainly one confusing mess, isn’t it? In the future, we probably should be…”

“More upfront with one another?” he suggests, finishing her train of thought. “It does seem to be a better idea.”

She finds herself leaning forwards without really noticing it. “Well, in the spirit of honesty, I’d like to ask what you want? Because personally I’d really like to kiss you and I’d like to actually do it properly this time, instead of while drunk and extremely confused. And I know you just said you’d be okay with risking a relationship, but that was before you knew that I didn’t know, and that does complicate matters.”

“I’m more than amenable to a relationship,” he assures her, a faint blush high on his cheeks that she’s certain matches her own. “And I would very much like to kiss you.”

Oh good. 

This time, when they meet, it’s not filled with the confusion and blundering of her previous attempt on Alderaan. This time feels right. He tangles his hands in her hair and somehow she ends up sliding into his lap, her arms around his shoulders as her tongue slides against his. It all feels as though it was meant to be, as though this is natural as breathing. Better than, even. All the better for knowing that she loved him before she knew about their bond. In every version of things, they are inevitable. 

~*~

Many years later, at Malavai’s wedding, Lucian comes up to him with a forebodingly toothy grin on his face, sticks his hand out, and says - 

“You owe me ten credits.”

~*~


End file.
